


pray you never feel this same kind of remorse

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Duke Corvo Attano, Forgiveness, M/M, Medium Chaos Corvo Attano, Post-Dishonored 2 (Video Game), Rated M for Martin, Spymaster Teague Martin, but he's mellowed out over the years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: Corvo’s eyes bore into his, and Teague bows, the gesture only half-mocking. “Your Grace,” he greets, his tone admirably even. “To what do I owe the honour?”“Necessity,” Corvo’s voice is blunt, no-nonsense. “I would have been content never to see you again, Martin. But I need a Spymaster, and as I see it, you owe me at least fifteen years of your life.”Teague only just manages to keep his jaw from dropping, though he knows his eyes must be as round as saucers. “You wantme,” he begins, heavily emphasising the ‘me’ as though he means to make sure Corvo knows just whom he’s speaking to, “to serve in yourcourt?”“Yes.”
Relationships: Corvo Attano/Teague Martin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 47





	pray you never feel this same kind of remorse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IvaHian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvaHian/gifts).



> It's my friend [Iva's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatestChairman/pseuds/TheGreatestChairman) birthday today! :D
> 
> Happy birthday honey, I hope you like the Teavo <3

“ _All hail Duke Corvo Attano, first of his name._ ”

It’s been a month since that announcement was broadcast all throughout Serkonos.

It’s been a month, and Teague Martin is still here.

He still gets up at noon and retires deep into the night, when the last of his patrons have left and he’s had a chance to wipe down the bar. He still serves drinks to the miners and the gang members, his regular clientele dissuading the Grand Guard and the Overseers from frequenting his bar, exactly the way he likes it. He still slips out at dawn twice a week to trade a dozen bottles of the Morleyan whiskey he personally distils with the smugglers who provide him with various goods, or information, on occasion.

He still does exactly what he’s been doing for about a decade now, in this little niche he carved out for himself in the Batista District of Karnaca. It’s not a glamorous life by any stretch of the imagination, certainly not the life he envisioned for himself fifteen years ago, the life he believed he deserved. But it’s _life_ , and that is more than he expected to leave Kingsparrow Island with.

And a part of Teague has been waiting all this time, for Corvo to come find him, to finish the job. Pendleton died right there in the gatehouse, Havelock was executed not long after Emily took the throne. Teague alone managed to slip away – and he knew from the get-go he was living on borrowed time. Corvo is not a man to leave things unfinished.

He’s managed to slip under the radar thus far. But with Corvo right here in Karnaca, living in the Grand Palace he can see across the ocean at night, it’s been feeling as though the walls are closing in.

But it’s been a month since the ship bearing Jessamine Kaldwin’s name made port, and Teague has not been shanked in the streets yet.

Perhaps his paranoia has been in vain all of these years.

Or perhaps not.

Because when he leaves his bar that night, the first rays of dawn’s light already peeking over the horizon, Teague is met with a foursome of Grand Guard officers.

Well. It seems Corvo is not that oblivious to his presence after all.

* * *

They ‘escort’ him to the Grand Palace, four men clad in red coats surrounding Teague as though he could make a break for it at any moment – which, granted, he might have, if he were younger. But Teague is old, pushing sixty now, and he knows he won’t be able to outmanoeuvre these guards.

He would rather just face his demise head-on. Teague has gotten nearly sixteen years of time he never expected he would have. If this is the day he dies, then so be it.

Of course, he would also have preferred to just have his throat slit in the night rather than be dragged to court to play the part of the black sheep. A public execution of the man who once tried to hijack the Abbey of the Everyman’s highest office will cement Corvo’s rule as Duke rather nicely, after all.

Still, that doesn’t explain why Teague is being taken up the stairs of the Palace, heading not towards the holding cells as he expected, but to the Duke’s personal office.

The guards march him inside, and Teague’s eye is immediately drawn to the tall figure standing in front of the window looking out on the grounds, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He looks the pinnacle of poise and control, commanding the guards with just a single wave of his hand. “Leave us.”

Only when the guards have left does he turn, and then Teague is faced with Corvo Attano for the first time in nearly sixteen years.

He looks… different. Older, of course, but that’s not what strikes Teague first. Corvo, back during the days at the Hound Pits, used to have an almost feral quality to him, shoulders perpetually hunched, eyes shifty, standing on his toes as though prepared to bolt at the drop of a hat. Now, though, Corvo looks calm, even faced as he is with a man who once nearly killed him. His hair is shorter, beard trimmed neatly, and he wears fine clothing worthy of his new station.

In comparison, Teague looks like a stone laid next to a diamond – his shirt is stained, hair messy (and that’s not to speak of his receding hairline), eyes bruised from a long night of work.

How the tables turn, indeed.

Corvo’s eyes bore into his, and Teague bows, the gesture only half-mocking. “Your Grace,” he greets, his tone admirably even. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Necessity,” Corvo’s voice is blunt, no-nonsense. “I would have been content never to see you again, Martin. But I need a Spymaster, and as I see it, you owe me at least fifteen years of your life.”

Teague only just manages to keep his jaw from dropping, though he knows his eyes must be as round as saucers. “You want _me_ ,” he begins, heavily emphasising the ‘me’ as though he means to make sure Corvo knows just whom he’s speaking to, “to serve in your _court_?”

“Yes.”

Corvo’s face is completely impervious, and Teague can’t contain the scathing laugh that escapes him. “ _Why?_ ” he demands, even though he has no right to make demands of Corvo Attano whatsoever. “Why in the Void would you trust me to –”

“I don’t,” Corvo cuts him off, still in that same infuriatingly measured voice. “But then I don’t trust anyone, and at least I know never to let my guard down around you.”

“Better the river krust that’s already spit its acid, is it?”

For the first time, Corvo’s expression shifts, the corner of his lips tugging slightly upwards. “Something like that, yes,” he hums. “And I know you’ve been trading for information all these years, Martin. You’re likely better equipped to handle this than anyone else.”

He speaks the words casually, but Teague’s blood runs cold at them. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

It’s not a question, and Corvo doesn’t answer it. “I was the Empire’s Royal Spymaster. Of course I kept an eye on potential enemies to the Crown.”

The gears in Teague’s head are turning rapidly, yet still nothing makes any sense to him. “You’ve known where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, all this time,” he says the words slowly, as though that might help him understand. “Why didn’t you…?”

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but it’s not difficult for Corvo to fill in the blanks. “I wanted to,” he says simply. “I _planned_ to. But you slipped away to Serkonos before I could, and I wasn’t leaving Emily alone, especially not so soon after her coronation. And by the time her reign was cemented… I just stopped caring.”

And that, more than anything, is what makes Teague flinch. Because there is only one thing worse than hatred, and that is _indifference_. “But you had me watched regardless, even after you stopped caring.”

“You never know when a snake will regain its venom.”

So the man who’s been bitten by the snake is afraid of the rope, now. Fitting, Teague supposes. “You also never know when a snake will shed its skin.”

Corvo snorts, the most expressive sound he’s made in Teague’s presence thus far. “Not even time can mend a forked tongue.”

“Time has corroded the silver, though,” Teague feels compelled to point out. If Corvo truly wants him to be Spymaster – and stars, the very notion is just ridiculous – he ought to know what he has to work with. “Whatever your convictions, I’m not the man I used to be.”

“We’ll see how well you perform,” Corvo shrugs, unperturbed. “The executioner’s block is always an option if you shirk your duties.”

So, he’s not being given a choice, then. Teague can’t say he’s surprised – Corvo has always been a pragmatic man. “Understood,” Teague says, adding, for good measure, “Your Grace.”

Corvo makes the same face he always did when someone called him Lord Protector, during the days the title had been stripped from him. “Dismissed,” is all he says, however, turning back to the window as if to show Teague he’s not afraid to turn his back on him – though Teague can see his shoulders are tense, body coiled like an overtightened spring.

But Corvo has nothing to fear from him, not anymore, at least, and Teague leaves the office without fanfare, though his stomach is churning and his thoughts are running a mile a minute.

This will be… interesting, to say the least.

* * *

He receives his own chambers in the Grand Palace.

It’s odd, to be surrounded by such opulence when Teague has spent the majority of the last fifteen years living in a small apartment above his bar, out of necessity and ease. He’s gotten used to the humble living arrangements, the close quarters, the constant sounds of the Batista District wafting in through the windows. His new chambers are spacy and comfortable and quiet, and Teague… isn’t sure what to think of it.

He’s not sure what to think about any of this, to be honest. But then his thoughts don’t matter anyway, not when the alternative is death, so Teague takes things in stride. Rolling with the punches is something he’s always excelled at.

At least Corvo was gracious enough to allow him to get his personal effects from his apartment – though, of course, under supervision of a quartet of guards once again – and Teague is glad to have his own clothes, his paraphernalia from Morley, and his little shrine to the Seven Strictures.

It doesn’t feel like home, not quite. But then Teague hasn’t really had a home all his life, and he’ll make do. He always has before.

The job of Spymaster itself is not as challenging as Teague expected, all things considered. Corvo took a handful of spies with him from Dunwall, tried and trusted men who know how to do their fieldwork. Teague is really just there to tie things together, to make sense of the reports, to send the spies out on their jobs and keep tabs on them.

Teague is the puppet master operating behind the scenes, and he is almost scared at how easily he picks up the trade of stealth and subterfuge again after a fifteen year hiatus. Perhaps the snake hasn’t shed his skin after all.

Corvo hovers over his shoulder every step of the way, his lack of trust obvious in the way he scrutinises Teague’s reports, the way he demands an explanation for every decision Teague makes. It’s _exhausting_ , the work and the constant surveillance and the feeling of being trapped in a gilded cage – but he does not complain. He knows he doesn’t have the right.

Teague does his work and he holds his tongue and he says a prayer to the Strictures every night – and he endures, the way he always had, the way he always will.

“Restrict the Rampant Hunger,” he begins his chant that evening, kneeling before his small polyptych of the Strictures, “or the intemperate will rise up among you like a virulent swarm, devouring everything –”

“Martin,” Corvo’s harsh voice thunders through his prayer, His Illustrious Grace apparently not seeing the need to knock on the door of his lowly employee, “what do you think you’re doing, sending Ortega up to Shindaerey Peak?”

“– wherever they go, even filth,” Teague continues steadfastly. Even Corvo Attano is not above the Strictures. “For what goes into your body, poisons you, and if you eat filth then filth is what you will vomit up. Surely the glutton will sell away birthright, family, and friends for a morsel of meat.”

Only when he is finished does he rise, turning around to find Corvo looking at him with a single raised eyebrow. “Fitting verse,” he drawls, no doubt referring to the part about the poison. “And a decent charade.”

“It’s not a charade,” Teague says, and where he might have bitten out the words were he younger, now they just come out as a tired sigh. “I do have some modicum of faith, Corvo. I wouldn’t have turned to the Abbey otherwise.”

Corvo hums noncommittally, clearly unconvinced. “To Every Man his choice; to Every Man his fate?”

“They have a pretty philosophy, if nothing else, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A philosophy you ignored, for the most part.”

“Yes,” Teague agrees easily, because, well, Corvo is more than correct on that. “I knew the Abbey was corrupt at its very foundation. And I kept thinking if I could just manage to climb the ranks, if I could just manage to get into a position to change things, I could _fix it_. I could fix the Abbey of the Everyman, and myself in the process. A redemption in two parts.”

There’s something assessing in Corvo’s eyes, something almost shrewd. “You were already there,” he points out. “You were already the High Overseer. You could have _stayed_ the High Overseer if you hadn’t…”

Corvo lets his sentence trail off, reigning his lingering anger back in, and Teague lets out a long breath. “Power itself is what corrupts,” he says. “That’s easy to see from a distance.”

“But more difficult when you’re holding it in the palm of your hand,” Corvo adds, and Teague doesn’t miss the way his left hand – gloved, covered, hidden – curls into a fist. “I’m aware.”

He _would_ be aware. Corvo Attano slipped through Coldridge prison as though he was a ghost, never so much as touching any of the guards, but the day after he received the Mark of the Outsider, he tore through Holger Square like a man possessed. Not that Teague lamented seeing that bastard Jasper choking on his own blood, but finding the marble floors of the Office of the High Overseer perpetually stained copper was… less pleasant.

Corvo, like Teague, didn’t know how to handle the power thrust upon him back then.

At least it’s prepared him – both of them, really, for the position they currently find themselves in. There are few more aware of the pitfalls of power than Corvo Attano and Teague Martin.

“For what it’s worth,” Teague says, voice uncharacteristically quiet, “I _am_ sorry, Corvo.”

“Sorry because you poisoned me, or because you didn’t get away with it?”

Dishonesty has no place in this conversation. “Both.”

Corvo hums softly, and it’s like coming to an understanding. A tense, precarious understanding, but an understanding nonetheless.

“Why _did_ you send Ortega to Shindaerey?” Corvo asks again, the question much less hostile now. “There’s nothing there but the old abandoned quarry.”

“And the wind corridor,” Teague points out. “There were reports of the windmills producing less energy than usual. I figured it best to make sure the corridor is still fully functional, without making any fuss about it. Ortega used to work in construction, before you recruited her; she’ll be able to assess accordingly.”

Corvo’s brow furrows. “You didn’t get any reports about the wind corridors.”

“No,” Teague says. “But _you_ did. And one of our spies saw fit to mention that it concerns you.”

“Why would –?” Corvo begins, but he stops himself, shaking his head. “My concerns are _mine_ , Martin. Not yours.”

Teague shrugs, but the grin tugging at his lips betrays him. “The concerns of His Illustrious Grace are the concerns of the people of Serkonos.”

Corvo’s eyebrows reach for his hairline – and then he _laughs_ , the sound a low rumble Teague has never had the pleasure of hearing before, not even back during the days of the Conspiracy. “Call me that again and I _will_ arrange for that public execution,” he warns, though there is little bite to the words. “But… I appreciate your foresight.”

It’s as close to a ‘thank you’ as he’s going to get, and Teague gladly takes it, offering Corvo a straight-backed bow, as befitting. “Was there anything else you needed, Corvo?”

“No, that will be all,” Corvo says. “Remember to report in early tomorrow; I have to attend breakfast with the newly arrived dignitaries from Tyvia.”

“Of course,” Teague says, and Corvo leaves him with a nod, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Teague sighs heavily, weariness settling over him like a thick blanket, yet instead of seeking out his bed, Teague turns back to his little shrine to the Strictures.

An additional prayer won’t be amiss, tonight.

* * *

It’s at least another month before Corvo allows him to sit in on one of the council meetings.

Teague assumes he just didn’t want to introduce a new Spymaster only to have him beheaded a week later, should things not have worked out, and he can’t begrudge Corvo that. He’s already amazed at the small liberties Corvo has granted him since they had that late-night conversation in Teague’s quarters, his hovering lessening a little more every day. It’s not trust, not quite, but it’s… something.

Besides, it’s not as though he’s eager to be a part of the council. Teague has spent more than enough hours of his life debating technicalities with people who consider themselves important.

Though Corvo’s council, he finds, is not made up of people who consider themselves important. Corvo’s council is just made up of _people_.

It’s also only made up of _three_ people, himself and Corvo not included, and Teague understands why Corvo’s been having such a hard time. He’s been trying to do everything practically by himself.

“This is Martin,” is all the introduction Corvo gives him at the beginning of the meeting. “He’ll be a part of this council from this moment forth.”

The others take his presence in stride, and as the meeting progresses, Teague finds that he _likes_ them. They’re clever, and they _care_ , which is a rare combination to find.

Aramis Stilton knows the ins and outs of the mines, and most of his proposed motions revolve around funding for innovation, ways to make life in the mines easier for all his workers. Lucia Pastor advocates for the poorer citizens, those who stay at home while their loved ones work long hours in dangerous jobs, asking for better housing conditions and more financial support from the Duke and his government. And Alexandria Hypatia sits and listens, for the most part, taking everything in – but when she speaks in that soft voice of hers, everyone pays close attention, because she does not waste words.

Corvo has found himself proper advisors, and Teague… isn’t sure what he’s doing here, among these people who so clearly radiate _goodness_. The most Teague can say for himself is that he hasn’t had anyone killed in the past decade and a half, and that’s not much. It’s not nearly enough, and Teague wonders, now more than ever, what possessed Corvo to offer Teague a position in his court.

Funny, how the kindness of others can make one feel so inadequate.

He doesn’t say much throughout the meeting, only chiming in when Corvo explicitly asks something of him, and by the time Corvo officially ends the proceedings, Teague is more than ready to go back to his office, away from these people and their inherent goodness he will never be able to attain.

Of course, it’s not that easy. Pastor stays behind to ask Corvo about the state of a previously discussed bill, and Teague is trapped where he is when Aramis Stilton takes it upon himself to come and shake Teague’s hand.

“It’s lovely to have you,” he says, his Serkonan laced with a subtle Caulkenny accent that makes Teague ache for his hometown of Arran. “The council has been a bit understaffed, since its inauguration – not that we’re not willing to pick up the slack, mind, but many hands make light work.”

“Glad to help,” Teague doesn’t quite lie – it _is_ nice, to assist a government so clearly more capable than Luca Abele’s.

He hopes that will be the end of it, but Stilton cocks his head, regarding him curiously. “Tell me, what is it you do for our new Duke, Mr. Martin?”

Were Teague not so experienced at keeping a straight face, he would’ve flinched at the question. “I… procure information.”

Another not-quite-lie, and Stilton hums in understanding. “I see,” he says, thankfully not asking further. “Theo – that is, Duke Theodanis – also had a man for that. Luca didn’t think it necessary, unfortunately. I’m glad Duke Attano sees the wisdom in reinstating the position.”

“His Grace is a judicious man,” Teague says, the statement purely a diplomatic one. Rarely a day goes by when he doesn’t question Corvo’s wisdom, especially in regard to his own appointment.

There’s something in Stilton’s expression Teague can’t quite place, something warm yet shrewd at the same time, as though he’s figured out a secret that pleases him greatly. “If you could, please try to keep him from working himself too hard,” Stilton implores. “He seems determined to carry the burden of leading this country solely on his own shoulders.”

Teague cannot help but huff a quiet laugh, both because Stilton speaks true, and because he is really asking the wrong person. “I don’t think anyone is capable of making him do anything, Mr. Stilton.”

Least of all Teague, though Stilton doesn’t seem to quite grasp that. “Well, whatever you can manage would be a blessing, I’m certain.”

Thankfully, Corvo wraps up his conversation with Pastor in that moment, and the three members of the council take their leave. The sound of their voices cuts off abruptly when Hypatia closes the door behind them, and Corvo and Teague are left alone in the silence of the meeting room.

Teague quietly collects his papers, waiting for Corvo to dismiss him. But Corvo is still seated in his high-backed chair, just a bit taller and fancier than the other chairs around the table to signify his position as head of the council and the entire nation. He’s not even made a move to pack up and go back to his office, and Teague lingers, uncertain.

“You’ve built a fine council,” he says when the silence drags on too long. “They’re good people.”

“They are,” Corvo sighs. He sounds tired. “They should be running this country in my place. I told Emily I wasn’t fit for this, I told her she should have just –” He stops short, as though he’s suddenly realising just whom he’s talking to, and he shakes his head, instead finally moving to gather his files.

“Must’ve been nice, then,” Teague remarks, “to not have been the worst person in the room this time.”

He hoped to make Corvo laugh again – Corvo has a nice laugh, and Teague has found he likes being the one to elicit it – but Corvo just snorts, the sound utterly self-deprecating. “Wasn’t I?”

“No,” Teague says immediately, more sharply than he intended. “Unless you went and poisoned a friend since we last saw each other, that is.”

Corvo’s lips curl into a wry smile. “I have not,” he says. “But I’ve killed more than you.”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” Corvo confirms, without a hint of doubt. “I know about your past, Martin. I know you used to be a soldier, and a highway robber. But I killed more during those months after Jessamine’s death than you ever did.”

Teague would ask how he knows all of that, if Corvo hadn’t been the Crown’s Spymaster these past fifteen years. And it’s odd, to think that this man, a man Teague betrayed, a man who should have killed him years ago, is the one who knows him better than anyone else in this world. It should be disconcerting, depressing, even, but it’s not. It’s comforting, actually, that Corvo, for all he knows and all the hatred he must feel towards Teague, has consciously decided not to end him despite having had the chance. Perhaps his logic is twisted, but it makes Teague feel like he has not rotten completely down to the core just yet.

And the least he can do is return the favour.

He sits back down, taking Stilton’s chair at Corvo’s right hand. “You killed for a cause,” Teague says, in what he can only hope is a reassuring tone. He truly has lost his silver tongue over the years. “You killed to save the Empire.”

“I nearly ruined it instead,” Corvo counters sullenly. “I didn’t have to drive my blade through every guard who’d been bribed, every Overseer just following orders, every petty criminal trying to survive. I had no right to play judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Neither did Burrows,” Teague points out darkly. “And neither did I, for that matter.”

Corvo lifts his head to look at him, gaze assessing. “Why did you, then?”

“Because I thought myself more important than others,” he can answer that easily enough, even though the admittance has shame curling hotly in his stomach. “I wanted to survive. To _thrive_. And if some people had to die for that… well, it was them or me. It wasn’t a hard choice, back then.”

It would be a harder choice now, though Teague cannot say with certainty which choice he would make. His instincts of self-preservation have been very finely honed, over time.

“I think… I think I thought the same,” Corvo whispers the words like a confession, his voice raw. “I believed it was justice, righteous vengeance, but… I just considered my own suffering more important than that of others.”

“You suffered more than most.”

“That doesn’t make the things I did right.”

“No,” Teague has to concede. “But the fact that you realise that is a step in the right direction.”

Not that he, of all people, knows which direction is right, but Corvo just hums softly, brow furrowed in contemplation. “What’s the next step?”

“I don’t know,” Teague murmurs. “You carry your sins on your back and try to put one foot in front of the other, I’d say. The walk is harder, with the weight, but it’s easier to keep straight. A man who carries the world on his shoulders is less likely to stray from his chosen path, lest he lose his balance.”

“Sounds like an Abbey sermon,” Corvo comments wryly.

Teague’s lips curl into a sardonic smile. “It’s not,” he says. “But maybe it should be.”

“Maybe,” Corvo agrees, returning Teague’s smile with a tired one of his own, for once not attempting to school his features into something impassive. “Or maybe not. I may actually have to attend the sermons, in that case.”

“The travesty,” Teague deadpans, and that finally draws a chuckle out of Corvo.

“We’ll just say I don’t have the time,” he says, briefly running the fingers of his right hand over the black cloth covering his left before gesturing at the many papers laid out before him. “It wouldn’t even be a lie.”

“Restrict the Lying Tongue,” Teague could recite the whole verse, if he wished. “Doesn’t seem like you need the sermons at all.”

Corvo gathers up the papers, hands working deftly, not prone to Restlessness, and Teague – Teague really ought to restrict the Wandering Gaze, and quickly at that. There is no worse object for his gaze to land on than Corvo Attano.

Yet it’s impossible to tear his eyes away, especially when Corvo smiles at him so openly, as though Teague is not the man who poisoned him and left him for dead. “Thank you,” he says, hesitantly, as though he, too, wonders at the words leaving his mouth. “I’m… Your input is appreciated.”

He’s falling back into his courtly demeanour, walls building back up, and Teague latches onto it like a lifeline. “I am only here to assist, Your Grace.”

Corvo nods, finally standing to leave, and only when Teague hears the click of the door falling closed does he allow his posture to sag, resting his head in both of his hands. Bad, bad, this is _bad_. If there is one thing he doesn’t need right now, it’s for his old attraction to Corvo to resurface. He didn’t have the right then, and he most certainly doesn’t have the right now.

Teague has only spoken with the Outsider once in his life, but right now, he swears he can hear the deity laughing at him, the same way he laughed at it all those years ago.

Worst is, he deserves it.

* * *

Over the next few months, things… change.

It’s a subtle change, a gradual migration, but Teague takes notice of it all the same. Slowly, the daily pile of paperwork on his desk grows taller, while his briefings with Corvo grow shorter. Spies begin to report back to him directly, rather than going through Corvo first, and during their biweekly council meetings, Corvo looks to Teague more often each time, letting him raise his own points and concerns rather than controlling the agenda as he did before.

If Teague didn’t know any better, he’d say Corvo was beginning to trust him. Rely on him, even. And that _cannot happen_.

He decides to test it. Writes up a false report, all evidence and testimonies utter oxshit, about Howler movement near the Upper Cyria District. Not something so serious it will need Corvo’s personal, immediate attention, but something that could be concerning, given time. It’s exactly the type of report Corvo took apart meticulously in the early days of Teague’s tenure.

This time, however, it returns to Teague’s desk without fuss the very next day, with only a small note from Corvo asking him to keep an eye on the developing situation.

And that can’t stand.

He carries the report back to Corvo’s office, when it’s time for their daily briefing, and he chucks the papers onto Corvo’s desk with more force than would be appropriate. “What in Holger’s name is this?”

The aggression in his tone has Corvo tense, and his jaw is set in displeasure as he reaches for the file, flipping it open and skimming its contents. “Howler movements,” he mutters, recognising the text. “Blanchard is leading them, now that Paolo is taking his extended leave of absence with Vice Overseer Byrne. They’re not an immediate threat, without their leader, but if they’re migrating, it’s worth watching them, to be safe. Assign a spy or two, have someone infiltrate the ranks, whatever you think is best.”

 _Whatever you think is best_. Stars be damned, Corvo really _does_ trust him.

“It’s false,” Teague blurts out, without preamble. “Every word in that report is false.”

 _That_ gets Corvo’s attention. He’s on his feet immediately, tall figure looming over Teague, and his expression is nothing short of thunderous. “Explain.”

The word is little more than a growl, his very form radiating danger, and Teague steps back despite himself, despite having expected exactly this. Even now that he’s older, now that his face is lined and his hair is greying at the temples, Corvo Attano could snap Teague’s neck with one hand behind his back, and Teague is very much aware of that fact.

“You’ve been pulling back,” Teague says, voice level despite his heart hammering in his throat. “You’re not auditing my work anymore. I thought you knew better than to blindly trust my word.”

He expects Corvo’s face to twist in horror at the realisation that he has let his guard down, that he has once again allowed Teague to worm his way into his good graces. But Corvo just shakes his head, a wry smile pulling at his lips, and he sits back down. “So you’re testing my vigilance?” he asks, sounding, of all things, _amused_. “That’s not part of your job description, you know.”

If Teague had any hair to spare, he’d be pulling it out. “You can’t trust me like this,” he says hoarsely. “You _can’t_. _I_ don’t trust me like this, _why_ would you –?”

“I don’t think it’s your place to tell me what I can and cannot do,” Corvo cuts him off, but there is no sharpness to the words, no scowl on his face. “You’re doing good work, Martin. That’s enough for me.”

Teague can hardly believe his own ears. This isn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening. Corvo shouldn’t be trusting him. “And when I inevitably decide I want something I can’t have?” he demands, raising his voice more subconsciously than anything. “When you or someone else becomes a liability to me? We both know I won’t hesitate.”

“Won’t you?”

Teague thinks it a rhetorical question, until Corvo raises an expectant eyebrow. “I haven’t before.”

“‘Before’ was a lot of steps ago,” Corvo points out, no doubt referring to what Teague told him all those months ago, after their first council meeting. “Besides, there are no more rungs on your ladder, Martin. It’s not like before, when you could conceivably gain more power by being rid of me. Perhaps you _will_ want something you can’t have; I can’t be sure – but you’re bright enough to know when something is unattainable.”

He’s right, and oh but he’s wrong. Because Teague may understand that this is the highest position he will be able to hold, that he will not remain the Spymaster if anyone other than Corvo becomes Serkonos’ Duke, that he cannot ever return to Dunwall because his name still carries infamy there – but he still wants what he cannot have, still wishes for what he does not deserve, still has a different role for Corvo in mind.

And that all becomes abundantly clear, to both of them, when Teague’s gaze dips from Corvo’s eyes down to his lips, lingering there. “I’m not sure I’m as clever as you think.”

Corvo’s lips thin, as though he’s trying to hide them from sight, and Teague looks away, not wanting to see the look of disgust that’s sure to be etched on Corvo’s face. Because there is nothing more revolting than an insect crawling where it does not belong, and surely Corvo’s first instinct will be to crush the cockroach underneath the heel of his boot.

But then Corvo Attano has never lived up to Teague’s expectations, and he doesn’t now, either. He merely slides the false report back across the desk, his eyes already on the small stack of paperwork he still has to work his way through. “If that is all, you’re dismissed.”

And Teague… Teague wants to _scream_ at him, wants to demand a punishment, because he has perverted the trust he should never have been given in the first place, has broken the Strictures he still claims to adhere to, and there should be consequences. Something should _happen_.

Yet he still has no right to demand anything of Corvo, so Teague merely snatches up the report and bows, despite Corvo not even glancing up from his papers, and he all but flees from the office, a dull ache blooming in his chest.

Indifference truly is the one thing worse than hatred.

* * *

“Restrict the Wanton Flesh. Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire,” Teague murmurs the words half-heartedly, kneeling before his shrine that evening. He is a charlatan at best, a heretic at worst, and the words taste vile on his tongue. “What avail is the concourse of a prostitute? The attention of a loose companion? Nothing. And what of the fruit of such unions? Only sorrow is born, only misery is multiplied; within these things, the Outsider dwells.”

He rises with a soft grunt, his knees aching. Every time he finishes his prayers he avows to place a pillow down on the floor next time, and every next time he forgets. He really is getting old.

A knock startles him, and he whips his head around to find Corvo already standing in his chambers, knuckles tapping against the doorframe out of politeness more than anything else. “Am I interrupting?”

It’s a far cry from the way Corvo used to just barge inside – because he does, in fact, own the place – and Teague manages an appreciative smile despite the fact that the sight of Corvo tugs painfully at his heartstrings. “Nothing but my bidaily reminder that I’ve grown old.”

“You’re not that old yet.”

Teague snorts. “Clearly you do not restrict the Lying Tongue.”

“About as well as you restrict the Wandering Gaze, I’d say.”

Corvo speaks the words loftily, yet they physically feel like a vice around Teague’s heart. He turns back towards his shrine, purposefully keeping his eyes off Corvo, and he focuses on blowing out the candles around the polyptych of the Strictures just to give himself a moment to compose himself. “The standard punishment for failing to restrict the Wandering Gaze is two days in the stocks. Three, on a repeat offense,” he says matter-of-factly. “Shall I report to the courtyard first thing in the morning so my sentence may be carried out?”

Corvo is silent for a long while, speaking only when Teague once again fails to restrict the Wandering Gaze and looks at him. “Do you truly think so little of me?” he asks, voice smaller than Teague has ever heard it before. “That I would condemn you for _looking_ at me?”

“You’ve condemned men for less,” Teague says, then winces, wishing immediately that he could take the words back, even if they are true. “I mean –”

“I know what you mean.”

“I’m sorry.”

Corvo shakes his head. “I wasn’t a good man back then,” he acquiesces. “Neither were you. And I don’t know what we are now, to be honest. But I’m trying to be better, and so are you. That ought to count for something.”

“Maybe so,” Teague has to agree. The idea that he’s become a better man this past year as Spymaster is appealing, though he doubts the truth of it. “But what I did to you, back then…”

He trails off, and Corvo sets his jaw, averting his gaze. “It’s not as though I didn’t deserve it,” he mutters, and that’s – well. No one deserves to be betrayed by his friends. “And I’ve forgiven you for that a long time ago.”

Teague shakes his head. “You shouldn’t.”

“A bit late for that.”

Corvo steps closer, and Teague has to force himself not to step back. “Corvo, I –”

“What did you mean,” Corvo cuts him off, moving ever closer still, “back in my office, about not being as clever as I think you are?”

With Corvo this close, it’s impossible to stop his gaze from wandering once again, his eyes locked inescapably on Corvo’s lips. “You know what I meant.”

Corvo lifts Teague’s face with the back of his hand, the touch gentle but firm, forcing Teague to look him in the eye. “I want to hear you say it.”

Teague would have preferred the stocks, honestly.

“I am not smart enough to know when something is unattainable,” he manages, dancing around the thing he knows Corvo wants to hear. “I want something I cannot have.”

“And what is it you want?”

And there are a million things he could say to that. Some are crude – he wants Corvo to undress, wants to take him to bed, wants to see his face as he unravels underneath Teague’s fingertips. But most, he finds, are much more mundane. He wants to wake up next to Corvo in the morning, see him completely unguarded. He wants to have drinks together after a long day, curled up against one another. He wants to massage Corvo’s neck, get rid of the knot that always forms there because of the long hours Corvo spends bent over his paperwork. And he wants, has wanted for a long time now, to find out if Corvo’s lips taste of the figs he likes to snack on.

But the sentiments stick in his throat, and Teague manages only the one word, a word that’s all-composing on its own. “You.”

Corvo hums softly, and there is relief in his smile. “I don’t think that’s quite as unattainable as you think.”

And before Teague can even begin to wrap his head around that, Corvo cups his cheeks and leans in, and then there’s preciously little room for coherent thoughts altogether.

It’s a light, unhurried kiss, a testing of the waters, and Teague subconsciously strains forward when Corvo pulls back again, wanting more, wanting _him_ , wanting, wanting, _wanting_.

Corvo still has one hand on either side of his face, and ironically, it’s the tender stroke of his thumb along Teague cheekbone that has the breath hitching in his throat. It’s been a long time – too long, long enough that he can’t remember, maybe it’s never happened at all – since he was last touched quite this softly.

“Was that agreeable?” Corvo asks, and stars, but the red dusting his cheeks is _delightful_.

“More than,” Teague huffs the words like a quiet laugh, feeling utterly elated. He never even dared to dream this would happen. “Corvo, are you… sure about this?”

It’s a question he has to ask, and from the way Corvo rolls his eyes – smiling fondly all the while – he knows it too. “I thought this through,” he murmurs. “If you told me a year ago that this would happen, I would’ve laughed, but… you’ve changed. You’re trying, just as I am. And you know exactly who I am, what I’ve done, and still you _want_ –”

Teague reaches up to cover Corvo’s hands with his own, stopping him in his tracks. “Of course I want,” he says. “I told you before, Corvo. I’m a selfish man.”

There’s something wry about Corvo’s answering smile. “So am I.”

And he kisses Teague again, properly this time, his beard rough on Teague’s skin and his lips pliable against Teague’s own, parting at the slightest insistence. Teague’s assumption was correct, he learns quickly; Corvo does taste like figs, and coffee, and _Corvo_ , and Teague cannot contain the pleased hum rising in the back of his throat, his hands leaving Corvo’s so he can wrap his arms around Corvo’s neck and pull him in closer, until their bodies are flush together and Teague truly cannot hide anything anymore.

He breaks away, his breath already leaving him in small, quiet huffs. “Would His Illustrious Grace care to stay here tonight?”

For once, Corvo smiles at the ridiculous address. “His Illustrious Grace would, indeed.”

* * *

In the following weeks, Teague gets everything he wanted and more.

He gets to wake up next to Corvo every morning, sometimes watches him sleep, sometimes wakes to Corvo’s hand carding softly through his thinning hair. He gets to share drinks with Corvo after they’re both done for the day, sitting much closer together than strictly necessary on the small sofa in Corvo’s chambers. He gets to massage the tension from Corvo’s shoulders at night, before they fall asleep, and those are the nights when Corvo sleeps soundest.

There are also nights when they get preciously little sleep altogether, but those are uncommon. They’re not young anymore, after all, and they need their rest to do their jobs properly. But that doesn’t mean Teague hasn’t mapped out _exactly_ how Corvo looks when he is pushed over the edge, and it’s as gorgeous a sight as he always imagined it would be.

They have to be somewhat discreet about their relationship, of course, though the servants have already learned not to disturb them after hours, and to bring the Spymaster’s breakfast to the Duke’s chambers in the mornings. But Corvo’s staff respects him enough to hold their tongues, and no one is the wiser as to what the Duke and his Spymaster are up to behind closed doors.

Well. Almost no one.

Because Aramis Stilton is more observant than he has any right to be, and he clasps Teague’s shoulder after a council meeting some months down the line, grinning appreciatively. “His Grace looks much more relaxed as of late.”

It’s true; Corvo has settled into his role as leader of Serkonos very nicely, and Teague swells with pride and – dare he think it – _love_ , when he looks at the easy smile on Corvo’s face as he speaks with Hypatia. “His Grace has learned to delegate, I believe.”

Stilton chuckles. “I believe you may be correct,” he hums. “But that’s only because he has surrounded himself with the right people. Like yourself, Mr. Martin.”

Were he younger and more susceptible to flattery, his ears would have burned. “And you as well, Mr. Stilton.”

“Ah, perhaps,” Stilton says, waving away the praise. “I do believe you are of most value to our good Duke, though. If I’m not mistaken, I’d say you provide him with very effective… stress-relief.”

Teague can feel himself tense. “Is that objectionable, Mr. Stilton?”

“Hardly,” Stilton snorts. “I used to do the same, for Theodanis.”

Now Teague’s ears _do_ burn. Stars, but he could have done without that information. “I see.”

There’s a hint of mischief in Stilton’s smile – he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing – but his expression swiftly morphs into something fond. “Forgive me,” he says. “It’s not my business, I know, but… well, I hope you’ll be happy for a long time to come.”

Longer than he got to be happy with Theodanis, he doesn’t say, but then Teague has a knack for reading between the lines. “Thank you.”

Stilton leaves him be after that, thankfully, and Teague is more than a little glad when the members of the council depart for the night. There is still something exhausting about spending an afternoon in the presence of inherently good people, no matter how often he’s done this before.

“Stilton knows,” he feels compelled to tell Corvo as they gather up their papers, “about us.”

Corvo just nods, not even looking up from the files. “He would recognise the signs, considering his past with Theodanis.”

Teague makes a face. “I don’t even want to know why you know that.”

“Aramis and I do talk, from time to time,” Corvo drawls, very clearly amused. “That, and I distinctly remember him leaving Theodanis’ chambers the night I was set to leave for Dunwall.”

“At least you didn’t walk in on them.”

Corvo laughs, in that carefree way Teague likes hearing more than anything, and then there is a pair of strong arms around his waist, Corvo’s chin resting on his shoulder. “Imagine the horror,” he mutters, turning his head so he can press a kiss to Teague’s neck, “of walking in on the Duke and his paramour,” he stops to suck on the skin, with the sole purpose of leaving a mark, “while they’re _busy_.”

“Damn you,” Teague hisses, even as he tilts his head to give Corvo better access to his neck. “Do you really want to traumatise some poor maid or guardsman?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to bend you over the conference table right here and now,” Corvo chuckles. “Unless…?”

“No,” Teague says, his attempt at sounding stern thwarted by the gasp that’s the result of Corvo dragging his teeth across the already sensitive skin of his neck. “ _Corvo_ –”

Corvo briefly tightens his arms around Teague before he lets go and steps away, allowing Teague to smoothen the wrinkles out of his coat. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Let’s spare the staff the eyeful.”

“Thank you,” Teague lilts, overly polite, as he turns back to gather his files. But something nags at him, and he cannot help but give a voice to the insecurities that rear their ugly heads. “Wouldn’t you… _mind_? If word got out about us?”

“No,” Corvo says, with an ease Teague is envious of. “We aren’t doing anything wrong, Teague. I love you, and if anyone has a problem with that they can take it up with me.”

_I love you._

Abruptly, Teague drops his files and turns on his heel, marching to the large doors of the council chamber and resolutely turning the locks.

He looks at Corvo over his shoulder. “So what was that about bending me over this here conference table, Love?”

Corvo’s answering grin is all teeth.


End file.
